


For a Fifty

by TasteTheRainbow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: FuckOrDie Consent Issues, Hooker Fic, M/M, an instance of unexpected schmoop, au after season 1, high school prostitution, mild bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasteTheRainbow/pseuds/TasteTheRainbow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't care what Scott and Stiles say:  the bite did not turn Jackson into a prostitute.  But if it did, which it totally didn't, then Derek is the only one who can fix him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For a Fifty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heard_the_owl (heardtheowl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heardtheowl/gifts).



> For Jenn, who showed me some pictures and subtly ~~repeatedly~~ mentioned that there was a severe lack of Derek/Jackson fic in the Teen Wolf fandom, and also that Jackson would make a really fantastic hooker. It was way too stupidly fun to write, so thanks for the idea, Jenn, and to Kat for the beta.  <3 you both!

All things considered, things with Jackson probably could have gone better. Given the fact that Derek had never given someone The Bite, not to mention the fact that he'd only been the alpha for about twenty minutes, he maybe shouldn't have tried it. Hindsight, though. And really? Who thought Jackson would change this drastically? In this way? And that he would do this with it?

“Derek, you gotta do something, man. Today, he told me he's thinking about dropping out of school to focus on his business.”

Scott's so wide-eyed and sincere. For some reason, it makes Derek laugh because, well, he can't actually be serious. The bite either kills the victim or turns said victim into a wolf; it doesn't make them prostitutes. It would seem, by the looks on Scott's and Stiles' faces, that they wholeheartedly believe it to be a possibility, though. And that, to Derek's warped sense of humor, is hilarious.

“I'm not kidding!” Scott shrieks, his arms flailing. “He's charging guys on the team to, ya know.”

Any attempts to collect himself fail completely with the hand gesture that Scott uses next. Derek hasn't laughed this hard in, well, maybe forever. “To what now?” he asks, laughing again when Scott flips him off.

It's Stiles who finally restores order to the proceedings, standing from his place on a crate to shake his head disapprovingly. “Look, I don't know what you did, okay? I don't know how, and I really don't care _why_ you turned him into your little bitch in heat, but this has got to stop. I cannot watch him dry hump one more person in the halls and I sure as hell can't listen to him talk about what he did for a fifty in the locker room showers anymore.” Eyes narrowed at Derek, he says, “Figure out a way to neuter him.”

His bravado is cute, really. With a shrug, Derek crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “Are you concerned about Jackson or just pissed that you'd have to pay to get with him now?”

Stiles blanches at the accusation. “I'm sorry, did you just imply that I am jealous of other people fucking Jackson? Are you high?” When Derek only raises an eyebrow, Stiles jabs a finger in Scott's direction. “I didn't even want to come here. This guy's the one who's all _we gotta save Jackson._ Fuck him. I don't care.” He stops again and shakes his head. “That might have been a poor choice of words in this particular situation.”

“So what's the problem exactly?” Derek finally asks when the looks Scott and Stiles are shooting each other grow less amusing.

Scott sighs, as though Derek hasn't even been listening. To be fair, he hasn't. He's been too busy laughing at the dynamic duo over here to pay attention to what they're saying. “When you bit Jackson, he didn't shift, but he went into some kind of weird-ass heat. It's not completely uncontrollable right now, as far as I can tell, but it _is_ getting worse.”

“That's impossible,” Derek insists. He's been a werewolf his entire life. He knows pretty well how this thing works. What Scott is describing is not how it works.

“And yet,” Stiles interjects. He stares Derek down until it becomes clear that Derek isn't going to respond. “The guy's talking about leaving school to pimp his ass to anyone who will buy. Does that sound like healthy behavior to you?”

“The bite doesn't work like that.” 

It feels like a broken record spinning in the back of Derek's head but, seriously, it doesn't work like that. 

“Well, what else is it, then? Jackson just had a latent desires to be a prostitute?” Off of Stiles' surprised look, Scott shrugs and asks, “What? Allison's making me study for SATs.”

Derek can feel the smirk on the corner of his mouth. “Look, I don't know what's going on with Jackson, but I'm positive that it has nothing to do with me.” 

He turns to go, freezing in his place when he hears Scott say, “You bit him and he lived. That makes him your responsibility.”

Dammit. 

*-*-*

This is a stupid idea. Scaling the wall into the home of one of Beacon Hills' most prestigious lawyers is just a stupid, stupid idea. Doing it to confront the guy's son, who may or may not be about to embark on a life of naked crime because of Derek, doesn't really make it any better. Granted, Mr. Whittemore isn't home right now. He's busy entertaining his secretary while his wife is down south, spa-ing away her discontent. It's still a stupid idea.

First and foremost because that means the hundred thousand dollar car in the driveway, the one that isn't Jackson's hundred thousand dollar car, belongs to someone else. Jackson is the only student at Beacon Hills insecure enough to need a vehicle that ostentatious, so he's either invited a friend in from out of town or he's expanding his business into a more _mature_ market.

Derek tells himself that the thought of some middle-aged man bending Jackson over and doing filthy things to him at Jackson's behest only rubs him the wrong way because Jackson is his beta, at least for now. Until they figure out why he hasn't fully shifted, or if he's ever going to, Derek has to act as Jackson's alpha. As ridiculous as they can sometimes be, Scott and Stiles are right about that much.

He climbs one of the columns of the back deck, swinging through Jackson's open bedroom window quickly and easily. He immediately regrets it.

Jackson is naked and sweating, bent over his desk with his cheek pressed flat against the homework he was presumably doing before this guy showed up tonight. He has one long, muscular leg prepped up on the desk, thigh held there by the the man at his back. In his late thirties or early forties, the man is beginning to gray around the edges of his hairline, body fit and toned as he pounds relentlessly into Jackson's ass and grunts words that would make Derek blush if they didn't make him so angry.

He announces his presence with a low, angry growl. 

The man jerks back immediately, eyes wide and horrified. “Who the hell-,” he starts.

Leg still propped on the desk, Jackson rolls his head back and then drops it forward, his breath coming in hard, shallow pants as he chuckles. “I wondered when you were gonna stop by,” is all he says.

The john curses under his breath, scampering for his pants as he trips over his own feet on his way to the door. Jackson lazily returns his foot to the floor and turns, swiping beads of sweat from his upper lip as he watches his friend scramble.

“Hey,” Jackson says when the guy is almost to the door.

The john turns back, looking like he'd rather do anything but stop and chat right now. When Jackson holds a fifty toward him and waves it with a smile, he tilts his head in confusion. 

“I promised you a good time and my friend here,” Jackson says, nodding toward Derek as he pushes off the edge of the desk and approaches his new friend, “he interrupted us before we got to see just how much fun we could have. So you go ahead and keep half -,” he tucks the bill into the guy's front pocket, “and we'll find a way to spend it later, okay?”

“Jackson, I don't think this was the best idea.”

Jackson presses his finger to the man's lips and leans in close, brushing his nose against the column of his throat. “You're gonna go home tonight and rethink it. And then you're gonna call me, okay?”

Derek nearly rolls his eyes at the entire situation, the guy's eyes half-lidded as he accepts Jackson's brief kiss and staggers from the room. It's not the most uncomfortable situation he's ever found himself in, but it's in the top five.

“One of the partner's in my dad's firm,” Jackson explains with a smug grin as he crosses to the en suite bathroom, talking over his shoulder as he goes. “So what brings you by on this fine evening, Derek?” 

Crossing his arms over his chest, Derek opts out of sitting on any surface in this room. Who knows what else Jackson has done in here. “What the hell are you doing, Jackson?”

“You can't be that naïve, can you?” He returns from the bathroom, running a damp cloth over his stomach, completely at ease with his unabashed nudity. 

It's obvious by the way Jackson flops into his desk chair and flings one leg over the arm as he continues to wipe himself down that he wants Derek to look at him. To be fair, he's not horrific to look at or anything. Sure, it's awkward, the way the arousal is still rolling off of Jackson in waves, but Derek's not blind and Jackson's not exactly a troll.

“Put some pants on.”

Jackson just laughs as he shakes his head and drops his rag to the desk. He folds his hands behind his head and rocks twice in his chair. “I have it on good authority that you love it.”

“Oh yeah? What authority would that be?”

Considering him for a minute, Jackson carefully rakes his eyes over Derek's chest, down to his toes and back up to his face again. His smile is so sure, so knowing, that it's teetering on unnerving. He can't possibly know more about this than Derek does, but he certainly thinks he does. Of course, Jackson always thinks he knows more than anyone else in the room, so why should it be any different now?

“You really don't know, do you?” He chuckles again, that grating, irritating sound that Derek would be happy never to hear again. “You think you're still holding on to your dirty, little secret, huh?” 

He stands and rolls his shoulders, muscles rolling gracefully beneath his taut, pale skin. He moves more like a cat than a human being, certainly more than a wolf. Finally stopping when he's pressed right up against Derek's chest, his skin hot and damp through the thin fabric of Derek's shirt. 

Against Derek's ear, Jackson whispers, “I know now how badly you want me.”

Derek laughs, taking a step back in the hopes of smelling something other than pure Jackson. If it comes out sounding a little nervous and mangled, well that's just because he's personal space issues. Or something. 

“You're insane,” he finally manages to say, holding his breath until Jackson hopefully, mercifully takes a step back.

When he does, it's simply to sprawl across his bed, loose-limbed and unconcerned about any struggle may be trying to put up here. “I'm not insane, actually. Just unmated.”

Unmated? “What the hell does that mean?”

Jackson scratches idly at his belly, fingernails leaving dull red marks against his pale skin, as he shakes his head in amusement. “I would love to talk to you about it, maybe put on a little tie and have some teacher, student dirty role play, but I doubt you have the money for that right now.” He grunts a little as he flexes his shoulders and sits, arms clasped between his spread knees. “Figure it out and come back to me, okay? I'll show you a really good time.”

“I'm not leaving,” Derek insists, shaking his head. 

Jackson's entitlement and easy apathy toward anything unrelated to his own wants and desires used to be an obvious front. He used to be the kid who wore the overachieving mask to dull his own inner turmoil. In fact, the only reason Derek bit him with any intent other than instant death was because he thought maybe they could harness all those abandonment issues into something far more useful. Maybe, on some level, he even thought that he was protecting Jackson by giving him a gift, of sorts. Scott told him that Jackson was adopted and Derek felt like giving him a real family, a pack, would help calm him down a little bit.

His intentions were pure, despite Jackson's current assertion to the contrary. He's not going to bail on him now just because things have taken a decidedly unscheduled turn.

“Yeah, you are,” Jackson informs him, standing and stretching until the muscles in his abdomen are pulled tight and long. Derek can't be blamed for looking, but he supposes that Jackson can't be blamed for grinning so smugly after the fact, either. “I'm about to set the alarm, so unless you want to spend the entire night watching me sleep, you're going to have to go.”

Derek huffs. “You think I can't get around a security system?”

There's a flash something behind Jackson's eyes, something akin to _please don't leave me here alone_ or _show me I'm worth the risk of tripping this alarm system_ , but it passes as quickly as it appears, fast enough for Derek to second-guess whether he actually saw it.

“This conversation is not over,” Derek says in a low, even voice, despite the questions swirling in his head.

Jackson blows him a kiss with one hand while mindlessly tugging on his cock with the other. 

In the backyard, Derek pauses and scrubs his hands over his face. His skin is tingling, mind reeling, and legs numb as he cycles through what just happened back there. The words are a jumbled mess, mixed with mental images of Jackson's tight, bare body and the sounds of his moaning and begging. It's been awhile since Derek Hale felt completely off-kilter.

He doesn't much care for it.

*-*-*

“Did you find anything yet?”

“Fuckin' hell!” Stiles shrieks, spinning in his chair and nearly falling onto the floor when Derek speaks. He narrows his eyes, clutching at his chest. “You cannot do that!”

Derek rolls his eyes and saunters over to the desk, longing briefly for the days when Stiles was more intimidated by Derek than annoyed. He used to get shit done quickly back then.

“Google works for you, too, man,” Stiles tells him, smirking when Derek growls. “Look, I found something, but you are not going to like it. Like, at all.”

There's nothing about this situation that Derek likes, least of all the fact that he can still feel Jackson pressed against him if he stops moving and starts thinking for too long. “Just tell me.”

After a long, far-too-exaggerated sigh, Stiles returns his attention to his computer and clicks through a couple of tabs until he finds the one he wants. “Alright,”he says, clearing his throat. “According to this, if an alpha is, um,” he pauses and cuts a glance over his shoulder, eyes never quite meeting Derek, “If an alpha is aroused while delivering the transformative bite, that desire – no matter how conscious or subconcious – will transfer to the victim. Powered by the heat instilled in the victim by the alpha, the victim will most certainly begin the transformation, but cannot complete it until mated by the alpha.”

Derek blinks twice and shakes his head. “I was not aroused when I bit Jackson!”

“All signs say otherwise,” Stiles says with a shrug, turning from his computer to focus on Derek's incredibly disturbed face. “Look, you were barely an alpha at that point. What was it, like less than an hour before you bit him? You were probably just, ya know, turned on by the power of it all. The article says it doesn't matter why or if you even realized it.” His lips turn down as he considers something else, speaking mostly to the floor when he adds, “Besides, it's Jackson, ya know? It's not like anyone could blame you if you _were_ a little turned on.”

“I was not turned on!” Derek roars a little louder than he intended. Stiles' eyes dart around the room but, for once, Derek doesn't care if the sheriff comes busting into the room or not. His brain spirals around the information, struggling to take it in and slot it into some kind of sense. “Besides, I can't mate Jackson.”

“Why not?”

“Um, because he drives me crazy? Because he's a pain in the ass? Because I'd mostly rather punch him than look at him? Should I go on? Because I absolutely can.”

With a sigh, Stiles stands and runs his hands over the top of his head. “Look, it's not like I want to sit here and think about you and Jackson bumping uglies, either, but according to that passage, if you don't do it, he is literally going to fuck himself to death eventually. And I do not want to know what that means. Not even a little.”

Sinking to the edge of Stiles' bed, Derek releases a long sigh and drops his head low between his shoulders, elbows resting on his knees. “Stiles, I don't wanna do this before-,” he trails off and looks up.

Stiles looks mortified. “If this is about to be a proposition, I don't think now is really the time. I mean, flattering as it may be, knowing what you're about to run off and do doesn't exactly, ya know, put me in the mood.”

Shaking his head, Derek says, “No. I'm not saying. Look, I just kind of wish that I didn't have have to fuck Jackson before I get to fuck you.”

It hasn't been an argument, or even a problem, until now. Things are up in the air. The Argents are insane, especially with Kate dead and Allison straddling the fence between this world and that one. Scott's a powder keg of arrogance and ignorance and punch-drunk stupid love, so nobody knows how he's going to react to anything right now. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are necessary but biologically closer to Derek now than Stiles can be. Derek has alpha responsibilities now. 

Add to that the fact that Stiles was only questioning his sexuality before and has never had any experience with anyone, let alone a guy who not that long ago scared him so badly he nearly peed himself every time Derek was around. It's not exactly the formula for a great relationship or anything. Derek gets it but the timing on this Jackson thing just really fucking sucks.

Sitting next to Derek, Stiles mimics his pose and says, “Yeah, well, it doesn't exactly lessen my disdain for the guy, either. I'm pretty sure he would not do the same for me, but that doesn't make it any less right, ya know?”

“Dammit,” Derek curses, turning to grab the back of Stiles' neck with one hand. He kisses Stiles rough, hard and insistent, tongue plunging into his mouth before Stiles can argue. He doesn't necessarily mean to, but it's so damn easy to want this guy, to want to be with him and like him and inside him. 

He pulls back before he goes too far but doesn't resist when Stiles pulls him back in, letting him guide them back to the bed. Derek shifts his weight, settles between Stiles' spread thighs and languishes the feeling of rubbing his beard against the smooth skin of Stiles' chin when he finally pulls back to breathe.

“Jackson can fucking wait,” Stiles gasps, fingers scrabbling to rid Derek of his jacket as quickly as possible.

_We have a really big problem. A Jackson problem,_ Erica's voice sounds in Derek's head. 

For the briefest moment, Derek thinks about ignoring her, but he pulls back anyway, rolling off of Stiles and growling angrily at his side.

“What?” Stiles asks, paranoid and concerned. “What is it?”

Derek shakes his head and fights to control the anger bubbling in his gut. “The pack needs me.”

Nodding immediately, Stiles nods toward the window. “You should go.”

“We are not finished here,” he promises, kissing Stiles again. 

He's out the window and into the yard before he hears Stiles whisper, “I hope not,” up in his room.

*-*-*

To say that Derek is ill-prepared for the scene he stumbles upon outside the old subway station is an extreme understatement. Jackson has a terrified man in a green army jacked pinned to the ground, licking his neck as the man begs him to stop. 

Boyd is scratched all to hell. Erica is gingerly patting at the purple bruise beside her eye. Isaac is keeping his distance, but he's trying to to help. “Jackson, come on. Let's go. Jackson, man, stop it. Come on.” It's not working or anything but it's an attempt.

Suddenly, Jackson's head jerks up. He locks eyes with Derek, his smile spreading slow and happy. He's still straddling the guy, which is bad enough, but the closer Derek gets, the more obvious it becomes that he's a hunter. Jackson couldn't care less, that much is obvious. In fact, Derek wouldn't doubt that he planned this.

He keeps his voice low and authoritative when he says, “Jackson. Stop.”

Jackson stands immediately, head bowed in submission to his alpha. Derek sees the hunter reach for the pistol on his belt as he scrambles to his feet, but Boyd is a faster draw, catching him off guard and wrenching both arms behind his back. He growls, lifting the hunter off his feet for show. 

One problem at a time, Derek figures, heading over to diffuse the situation as diplomatically as possible. Of course, it's hard to be diplomatic with a shirtless nymphomaniac pressing up against his back like a barnacle on the side of a fucking pirate ship. 

Fuck, Jackson smells good. He's so ready to be mated, so ripe for it. His body is warm and hard, fingers nimble and soft against Derek's skin when Jackson starts stroking it just above the waistband of Derek's pants. It feels amazing, electrifying, but this is not the time. It's disturbing that he has to remind himself of that.

In an effort to stop the skin stroking, Derek says, “Jackson. Down.”

Jackson drops to his knees at Derek's side, hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed once more. It's a thousand times hotter than it should be.

Derek rests a hand on the back of Jackson's neck as he asks the hunter, “Did he hurt you?” The man's head shakes so vigorously, Derek fears he may damage his brain. His fear is tainting the air between all of them. “I apologize for his behavior. I'm going to take care of it right now.”

Jackson shivers beneath Derek's hand, the vibration tangible. He leans imperceptibly into Derek's touch.

“I can assure you that nothing, _nothing_ , like this will ever happen again.”

He doesn't know if the hunter is reacting to his assurance or the fact that Boyd is still holding him inches from the ground. Either way, he nods just as vigorously as he was shaking his head a minute ago. “I won't say anything. I swear I won't say anything.”

Derek cuts his eyes to Boyd and gives a brief nod. Boyd releases the guy and they all watch him stammer off without a backward glance. When they're alone, he looks down at Jackson and then over at the place where Isaac and Erica have joined Boyd. One problem down, one more to go.

“You guys should head home,” he tells the three still standing. 

“What are you gonna do?” Isaac asks, a lilt of concern on the end of his question.

He barely notices that he's petting Jackson's head when he says, “Go home.” Isaac and Boyd turn without question, but the look on Erica's face says everything for her. She opens her mouth, but Derek cuts her off with narrowed eyes. “You cannot watch,” he says. She tries again. “You cannot participate. Go home, Erica.”

She pouts, but she does as she's told, leaving Derek alone on a dirty, deserted street with Jackson, who is still docile, still waiting for his next command. 

Wordlessly, Derek withdraws his hand, leading Jackson down the stairs and into the tunnels below Beacon Hills. His eyes adjust easily to the light; he doesn't know if Jackson's will so he slows his steps. Whether by sight, sound, scent, or some other heightened sixth sense or wolf awareness, Jackson keeps up easily.

He should be over-thinking but he snapped into Alpha when Jackson obeyed his command. Now he's thinking only with his instincts. Punishment for the harm Jackson could have caused the entire pack tonight and pleasure in the claiming of a mate are Derek's only concern at the moment.

They wind through a couple of tunnels, Derek stooping at one point to grab a couple of heavy chains coiled near a wall as they pass. Jackson's breath hitches in the darkness causing Derek to smile as they approach a sprawling platform. 

He drops the chains to the ground with an echoing clatter and turns to Jackson. “Can you see anything?”

Jackson hesitates, licking his lips and squinting. “Enough. It's getting better, the longer we're down here.”

That's good enough for Derek. He steps forward, guiding Jackson toward the platform railing and holding him there with one hand around his throat. “Do you have any idea how close you came to destroying the painfully delicate truce we have established with the Argents tonight?”

With a squeak, Jackson's eyes grow wide. “I'm sorry, Derek. I didn't mean to. I'm trying to control this, man, but it's getting worse.”

Instantly, the idea of punishing Jackson isn't so appealing. “I know,” he acknowledges easily. “I should have been more careful with you. I should have had a better understanding of what I was doing before I bit you.”

“You can apologize by fucking fixing me,” Jackson snaps, his arousal growing by the second. 

Derek can only guess how long he has before Jackson's hold gives way all together. “I'm going to,” he responds as calmly as he can. 

He stoops to lift the chains, testing their weight in his hands before he drops them back to the floor again. He could tie Jackson down, restrain him, but what would be the point? Jackson's obviously not going anywhere right now.

“Do you know what mating is, Jackson?” 

Jackson whimpers at the word, slumping against the wall when Derek pulls his hand away. 

“It's a connection. Over time, it's become the stuff of legends, ya know? They say it's one mate for life, finding the person you were meant to be with, seeking that one soul mate that will complete you for eternity.” He stops for a moment and shots Jackson a smile that transcends sight, if Jackson's low growl is anything to go by. “Connection can mean anything, though. Personally, I think it's a little more visceral. Fucking.” Jackson yelps again and this time it makes Derek laugh. “Just two compatible bodies having really great sex.” He takes a step closer, lowering his voice. “Rough, filthy, primal fucking, Jackson. Surrendering your humanity to the wolf and fucking like wild animals.” He takes another step and presses his lips to the side of Jackson's neck, tasting the sweat and the wild beating of Jackson's heart against his mouth. “It'll be hot.”

He slides his hand around the back of Jackson's neck and onto his head, growing his claws just enough to scratch at Jackson's scalp when he grips his hair tight and pulls his head back. Jackson's eyes are wide, surprised and so turned on, Derek thinks he can't possibly have much blood rushing to his brain anymore. He dips his head, laps at the hollow of Jackson's throat until Jackson moans deep and loud from his chest.

“This is not some jacked up commitment ceremony, Jackson. It's important you understand that.”

“Just do it. Please.”

He smells so infuriating, so salty-sweet and irresistible. When one of Jackson's hands comes to rest on Derek's shoulder, Derek grabs it and pushes it into the air above their heads, following the movement with his nose as he breathes in that tantalizing aroma across Jackson's collarbone and into his armpit. Jackson stands rigid in anticipation, his heartbeat pounding like a bass drum between them as he fights to control the moans and whimpers building in his chest. 

Derek, for his part, does nothing to hold his reaction in, grunting and growling as his fingers slide over Jackson's throat, one long claw dragging against the fabric of his thin tee shirt, slicing through it like tissue paper. He's torn between devouring and savoring, between quick and dirty or slow and filthy. There's no need to seduce Jackson; that would be a waste of time. He's all but falling apart at the seems already. 

He's here to do a job, to mate Jackson and ensure that he finally completes his transformation. It doesn't have to be good or even enjoyable. It just has to get done. 

But now that he's here, pressing Jackson against a flimsy railing, inhaling his incredible scent and rubbing his knuckles against the soft skin of his contracting abs, Derek doesn't want to get it done. He wants to have some fun.

Suddenly, Derek releases Jackson and takes a step backward. He digs into his pocket and withdraws a flimsy piece of paper, waving it in front of Jackson with a taunting smile. “What's a twenty get me, Jackson?” 

Jackson blinks in confusion and, suddenly, it becomes clear on his face. The heat still boils and bubbles behind his eyes, but Derek's ratcheting arousal is calming him, as though his body is recognizing and anticipating the connection that will soon be complete. He sees the game for what it is and Jackson is ready to play. 

With the kind of smarmy grin that only he can pull off, Jackson pulls himself away from the railing and rolls his shoulders, his joints popping audibly as he stretches. “Do I look like some cheap streetwalker to you? That,” he nods to the bill in Derek's hand, “will get you an offended huff and a walk-off.”

Derek nods easily, his hand returning to his pocket to withdraw a fifty. “And this?”

Now Jackson smiles, fingers clasped in front of him as he pushes his arms out and then shakes them out. “That's a start.” He takes a step forward and rakes his eyes over Derek once before gracefully dropping to his knees, his split shirt fluttering at his sides as he falls. 

He leans forward until his face is pressed hard against Derek's dick, rolling his head from side to side, inhaling deeply as he revels in the scent. It's stupidly hot, the kind of hot that will make Derek lose his shit before he has a chance to actually mate Jackson if the eager kid doesn't stop it soon. 

But it's not Jackson's job to stop this thing. Derek grabs at his hair again, yanking his head back before he asks, “Are you going to imagine what it tastes like all night or are you actually going to get it out and suck it?”

Chuckling in amusement, Jackson rears back far enough to get his hands on Derek's belt buckle, fumbling a little in his haste to open it. He yanks Derek's underwear, along with his jeans, down to his thighs and attacks with all the skill of an frustrated virgin. At least he has the wherewithal to cover his teeth.

“This is what people pay you for?” Derek taunts, gripping Jackson's hair again, digging his fingers into Jackson's scalp and massaging. 

He knows damn well this isn't what people pay Jackson for at all. In fact, Derek has seen first hand how Jackson earns his money, can still remember the way he looked, sprawled over that desk in his bedroom, begging for whatever he could get. Even when Jackson slows into a rhythm, works his lips slow and wet and hot and steady over Derek's dick, it's that memory of Jackson getting fucked over that desk that gets Derek rock hard and ready in Jackson's mouth.

He pulls Jackson back, listening to his gasp heavily. “That's enough,” he says firmly, only ninety-nine percent that Jackson can't hear the tell-tale hitch of his breath. “Get up.”

Jackson rests on his haunches, rubbing his hands over his thighs as he gazes up at Derek through furrowed eyebrows. “And I was just starting to have some fun.”

Derek returns his smirk with a darker one of his own. “I told you to get up.” With a sigh of resignation, Jackson does as he's told. “Trust me, Jackson. I know what you want.” He grabs one of Jackson's arms and turns him, tossing him up against the railing again. Pressing hot against Jackson's back, Derek breathes, “Get your pants down. Do it now,” as he wraps one hand around Jackson's throat and uses the other to hold his waist. 

Jackson does as he's told, more practice at this one thing than any other Derek has seen tonight. Isn't that just telling.

With his bare ass pressed against Derek's hips, they both growl, primal and nasty in the dirty subway terminal. Derek probes two fingers at Jackson's wet hole, heartbeat stammering at the revelation. He's heard the rumors, thought they were something horny teenage werewolves throw around to fuck with each other, something of myth and pornographic legend. Turns out, a beta male _can_ get all slippery sweet and slick like a woman when mating with his alpha. 

He takes the surprise in stride, pumping his fingers into and out of Jackson while he grinds his cock against the crack of Jackson's ass. On Jackson's next whimper, Derek smiles hungrily. “Yeah,” he encourages against Jackson's ear. “You like that, huh? Feels so good, doesn't it?”

Jackson's fingers wrap tight around the railing, knuckles turning white as the steel begins to give way beneath his strength. He's mumbling incoherently, voice decidedly more high-pitched than Derek has ever heard it, than he imagines anyone has ever heard it. 

“What do you want, Jackson?” he whispers roughly, thrusting his hips forward as his cock jabs at the small of Jackson's back, his fingers buried to the hilt in Jackson's ass. “Tell me what you want.”

Jackson doesn't hesitate or blush when he says, “Fuck me. Please, Derek, just fucking mate me.”

Derek runs his middle finger around Jackson's hole and says, “Yeah, I thought that's what you might want..” He's not much of a talker usually, Derek's not. When he stops trying to filter everything, to over-think and over-analyze, when he's just acting on instinct, he has more to say than he thought. “You fucking love this, Jackson. Look at you. Your slutty little hole is begging to be filled up. Fuck. So goddamn pretty.”

As his hands explore the soft, pale skin of Jackson's hips, working him back and forth against Derek's cock, Jackson keens for it, loud and pleading and uninhibited, his entire body moving to Derek's every whim and will. The sweat-slick slide of Jackson's body against his own, the smell of him, even the sound of his voice is resonating deep into Derek's chest, shooting down his spine and making him stupidly harder by the second. His blood is thundering through his veins with wild anticipation as he uses one hand to guide his cock to the soaking rim of Jackson's asshole. His heart is racing as he pushes forward, buried completely in one, easy thrust.

Leaning forward, his hands gripping the rail beside Jackson's, Derek braces himself to pound Jackson unconscious. He stops when Jackson's hand covers his own, bow-string-tight shoulders slumping forward as he lets go of a giant sigh of relief. The stillness is shocking, so much so that Derek lets it settle and sink in. It's the click, the connection, the mating.

In his lifetime, Derek's had plenty of sex, thank you very much. It's never been like this, though. He's never felt a partner's heartbeat as though it were his own, never felt that partner's arousal spike with his own and threaten to tear him apart in the span of seconds. This is a whole new experience, this mating thing.

“Move.”

He's snapped out of his moment of sap by Jackson jamming his hips back against Derek's, gritting angry orders between his teeth.

“C'mon, man. Moment's over. Fuck me like-,”

“Like an animal?” Derek teases, pressing his chest flat to Jackson's back and punching his hips forward. 

Jackson groans like he's dying, whether because of Derek's brutal thrusts or his equally brutal joke is unclear. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters anymore, nothing but the tight grip of Jackson's ass so slippery hot around Derek's dick.

The railing begins to give way beneath their hands, the metal not forged to withstand this kind of werewolf abandon. Before they go crashing face-first to the ground a few feet below, Derek pulls back. Jackson releases a strangled protest, but Derek throws him, has his pants discarded and his legs in the air, before the sound can fully form. 

He fucks into Jackson relentlessly, his grip on the wolf loosening with every thrust. He feels Jackson's claws beginning to grow, digging into his back, so Derek lets his teeth come out, hissing and snapping at Jackson in response. 

Jackson's back arches, a howl of perfect pain and pleasure piercing the air and, when he relaxes back to the ground, his face has transformed as it should have weeks ago. His eyes are glowing a golden green color, one that Derek has never seen before but that suits Jackson exactly. His legs tighten around Derek's back as he rocks upward, nipping at Derek's collarbone with his shiny, new fangs. He breaks skin, just a little, but the blood is sticky and sparkling like club glitter on his lip when he pulls back with a knowing, elated smile.

It is, hands down, the hottest thing Derek has ever seen. Burying his face in Jackson's neck, Derek pistons his hips hard enough to bruise, deep enough to make sure Jackson will feel every aching inch tomorrow. He can't be too hard, can't get too deep, can't have enough.

They rut together like, well, animals, rolling around on the dirt-caked floor, fighting for a dominance they both know Derek will always win in the end. Of course, Jackson's proud smile when he manages to flip Derek over is kind of a win for both of them, Derek thinks. And the way he rides Derek like a stallion doesn't hurt, either.

“That's it,” Derek encourages, retracting his teeth to catch his tongue between them while he rolls his hips up to meet Jackson's. “Shit, Jackson, yeah. Fuck yourself on my dick. Feels so fucking good.”

Jackson digs his claws into Derek's chest, his head thrown back and his throat bared as he takes his fill, rhythm easy, graceful, and hypnotic. 

He jerks and nearly falls off when Derek reaches out to wrap one firm hand around Jackson's cock. Derek laughs, but helps Jackson right himself before they both end up injured. “Easy, tiger,” he teases, hitching a hip until they both tumble easily to their sides. 

Jackson hooks a leg around Derek's side and rolls onto his back, dragging Derek with him and shifting until both of Jackson's legs fit comfortably over Derek's shoulders. Instead of surging forward, he resumes the steady, even strokes of his hand on Jackson's cock and looks down to watch his cockhead stretching Jackson agonizingly slowly. He thinks briefly that he wishes he had a camera, but he doesn't actually need one. He's not going to forget this any time soon.

“Dammit, Derek, come _on_!”

Speeding only his hand, Derek's eyes dart from Jackson's face to his ass and back again, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You have any idea how wrecked you are gonna be after this?” He gives a short push forward, just enough to make Jackson yelp and then pulls back again with a laugh. His hand is a blur as Jackson jerks and fights to maintain some kind of dignity while Derek systematically dismantles him.

“Fuckin' hell, Derek, I'm gonna-,”

Jackson is cut off by a mangled groan as he comes hard enough to knock him back against the floor once again. What Derek isn't expecting is the pull in his own balls, the immediate shock of his nerve endings as he comes simultaneously and without warning. He thought he knew a thing or two about the biology of this thing, but coming when his mate does is new intel for Derek.

They lie together in silence for a moment, regaining their breath and processing what just happened. Morning-afters have never really been Derek's strong suit. Fortunately, Jackson is the first to stand with a grunt, wavering on his feet before he fully rights himself and grabs his pants from the railing. 

Derek follows, hitching his pants up over his hips and busying himself with tucking in and zipping up. Turning, he opens his mouth only to find Jackson shaking his head.

“You said it yourself” he reminds Derek. “It's not some commitment ceremony or any long-term thing. It's just fucking. I get it.” His eyes dart past Derek's shoulder and then meet his gaze with a cocky grin. “You gave me what I wanted so it's done.” He turns to go and then looks back with a smirk. “And you owe me about a buck fifty more for that shit.”

Derek snarls, hand darting out to grab Jackson's wrist. He yanks him back until they're sharing the same air. “You are officially closed for business, is that clear?”

Jackson only shakes him off easily because Derek isn't trying very hard to hold him in place. He liked it better when Jackson was a puny human, scared of the big, bad wolf. Or when he was a subservient beta, desperate to please his alpha mate; that Jackson was okay, too. This new, fully werewolf Jackson just makes Derek want to hit something, preferably Jackson's pretty, pretty face.

“You're not my boss,” Jackson says as he begins to walk away.

Derek calls after him, “No, I'm your alpha.” It may not mean anything to Jackson right now, but he'll get it eventually. He'll figure out his place one of these days. If he doesn't, Derek will have to teach him which, as far as Derek's concerned, is even better.

His phone rings in his pocket as he's approaching the exit, a text message from Stiles waiting for him when he steps into the stale, night air. 

_Jackson dead yet?_ is all it says, but Derek can read the underlying question, loud and clear. 

He sends a response - _Worse. He's family now._ and sets off for home. He's going to need a couple of showers to get the smell of Jackson off of him before he's comfortable seeing Stiles or Scott, and maybe a little time to figure out where all the pieces of his pack now fit. 

Boyd is smart, calculating even. Isaac is proving to be game for anything. Erica's feisty and fearless. Scott's all heart. Stiles is, well, he's Stiles which, as far as Derek is concerned, makes up for any preternatural ability he may be lacking. Jackson is the wild card, of course, because he's too young and dumb to know what might or might not get him killed, but he's driven and determined. Also, he's got a smoking hot ass that Derek would gladly take again if given the chance.

So it's not all turning out exactly as he had expected or planned. In the long run, it probably won't be so bad.


End file.
